Ethel (tossing up hers). Miss Mackenzie’s, I suppose!
Clive. Yes, Miss Mackenzie’s. It is a sweet little face; too delicate for my hand, though.
Ethel. So is a wax-doll’s a pretty face. Pink cheeks; china-blue eyes; and hair the colour of old Madame Hempenfeld’s—not her last hair—her last but one. (She goes to a window that looks into the court.)
Clive (to the Countess). Miss Mackenzie speaks more respectfully of other people’s eyes and hair. She thinks there is nobody in the world to compare to Miss Newcome.
Madame de F. (aside). And you, mon ami? This is the last time, entendez-vous? You must never come here again. If M. le Comte knew it he never would pardon me. Encore? (He kisses her ladyship’s hand again.)
Clive. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome, does the view of the courtyard please you? The old trees and the garden are better. That dear old Faun without a nose! I must have a sketch of him: the creepers round the base are beautiful.
Miss N. I was looking to see if the carriage had come for me. It is time that I return home.
Clive. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere? I hire him by the hour: and I will carry you to the end of the world.
Miss N. Where are you going, Madame de Florac?—to show that sketch to M. le Comte? Dear me! I don’t fancy that M. de Florac can care for such things! I am sure I have seen many as pretty on the quays for twenty-five sous. I wonder the carriage is not come for me.
Clive. You can take mine without my company, as that seems not to please you.